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THE TOY SOLDIER
Tony Fernandes
Once upon a time there lived a
little boy in a small village with his mother. His father worked very far
away and wrote home every month on a regular basis. He would return one
day, he thought, as he was longing to see him. He looked at his photograph
everyday on his study table, probably taken many years ago.
One late afternoon the postman came along with a letter from his father
letting mother know of his arrival date. The little boy’s joy knew no
bounds.
One fine day, in the distance he saw him trudging along with his suitcase.
Smiling away he ran towards him. His father put his suitcase down, lifted,
hugged and kissed the boy, who noticed a tear running down his father’s
cheek. Wait till I tell mother about this, he thought, only children cry.
Carrying his son in the crook of his arm, and holding his suitcase with
the other, he started to walk on the pathway leading towards their house.
In the meantime his mother was on her way to greet him. He saw his mother
wiping a tear away too. “Why is everybody crying” the boy thought to
himself, “when today is the happiest day of my life.”
“You have grown so big” his father said to the boy, who slid down as he
stepped into the balcão. He sat down on the wooden bench while he
laid the suitcase on the ground, wiping the sweat off his face with his
handkerchief. Or were they again tears too, the boy wondered!
In the meantime, some of the neighbours had gathered to meet his father.
Almost everyone went on to ask him something or the other. “How was the
journey?” “Was the sea very rough?” “Will you be here with us for two
months at least, Uncle?” “Why was the steamer delayed?”
The boy’s mother then carried the luggage inside while the rest continued
talking outside in the small balcão of their house.
“We will go to the ‘praia’ today,” somebody suggested from the group of
village folks who had assembled there in the courtyard. “Yes, yes, we must
go to the sea-shore, uncle, you must come with us” said another. “Uncle is
very tired and fatigued from the journey, let him rest today, we will go
to the beach tomorrow or some other day” said an elderly man. And
invariably they all agreed. The little boy did not say anything. He
foresaw this as a good opportunity to have some time alone with his Dad.
Fun-filled days, that the boy had so anxiously looked forward to, would
now follow. There would be many happy days ahead for him and everyone else
in the village. And other people hoped their folks would arrive for their
holidays too, in the following week or two. The entire village would then
be vibrant and filled with joy. But soon those happy days would end too.
Soon his father would have to leave and sail again to return to his job.
The boy immediately tried to cast these thoughts away from his mind. But
they kept on coming back to him. Thinking about this, the little boy would
sometimes sit alone quietly in a corner and cry.
And finally the day came, a day that was so dissimilar from the one when
his father arrived two months before. This was a sad day - the day when
the ship set sail. Traveling in a taxi, the boy, his mother and two
neighbours, who had always been their best friends, accompanied his father
to the pier by the riverside of the capital city to bid him adieu. Looking
into his father’s eyes he sensed his reluctance to board. But his
departure was inevitable and soon the hugs and kisses were brought to a
halt with the booming siren of the ship.
The boy saw his father waving out to him from the deck as the gleaming
white ship set sail. He waved back till the ship grew smaller and smaller
in the distance. Lost in his thoughts, he felt a hand over his shoulder.
Then he heard his mother’s voice say, “Son, don’t cry, your father will
come back soon.” “He cannot be with us all the time, he will return
shortly”. The boy remained quiet and still kept looking towards the ship
on the horizon till he could see it no more.
It was evening when they returned to the village. The house was very
quiet, somber and still. It was then that the void grew more apparent.
“When I grow big, I too will go to work and bring you lot of things” the
boy told his mother, glancing towards the toy on the shelf his father had
brought for him. It was a wooden toy soldier and he had not cared much for
it when his father was around. He was unaware of the significance it would
bear in the years to come.
The evening wore on slowly and seemed endless. And finally after saying
their daily night prayers and having their supper he fell asleep.
He woke up rather early the following morning and the first thought that
came to his mind was whether his father had reached Bombaim. His mother
was already up preparing tea by the fireside. She was looking into the
fire as she tossed small pieces of wood into the burning embers. She
seemed very quiet and sad. He wondered what she might be thinking of. He
saw the fire reflected in the glint of tear in her eye which saddened him.
Perhaps she was also thinking about his father. Now, it was his turn to
give some precious advice: “Don’t cry, mother”, the boy said. “Dad will
return. He has gone to work far away, but he will certainly be back soon.”
That morning sitting on the front porch, sipping his tea, the boy
reflected on the previous two months and how he would miss his father. He
remembered that some time ago his mother had told him that his father
would return home one day for good. When would that day come?
His father had taken him everywhere, to old and new places to see and
explore, to the beach, to the market place every day to buy fresh fish and
groceries, to his favourite restaurant in town for ice-cream, to the hills
for walks, canttam and cashews, to the lakes and springs for
picnics, and to nearby streams for a swim. He had made for him his very
own first mini robond. He had also taken him fishing to the
salt-water river, for football games in the nearby town, and to distant
places visiting friends and relatives, by bus, taxi and ferry, all of
which he had enjoyed immensely.
Sitting there he pondered that soon his summer holidays would end as well,
and he himself would be busy just like his Dad. He would have to start
going to school again, leaving all the thoughts of the good times of fun
and play behind him. As he sat there he could see his alma mater in the
distance, right on the top of the hill. All the village boys went to study
there. Soon the great time that he had would be only a nostalgic memory. A
holiday that was filled with fun was nearing its end.
In the following years as the boy grew up, his father came home on a
holiday every year, brought him more toys, and similar enjoyable holidays
followed. But for years that wooden toy soldier stood silently on the
shelf, like a sentinel guarding a town, occupying that space on the shelf
with its fixed gaze towards the opposite wall and seemingly looking
through and beyond it, into the distant hills, staring into a future he
never knew, while conveying an important message.
As the boy grew older, he often reminisced about his father, and through
his own uncertainties and obstacles, he found strength in the thought of
the wooden toy soldier his father had given him, motionless yet hardy,
strong, protective and inspiring. As he grew up, he realized that he had
looked at that toy soldier more than he had played with it, perhaps in an
unconscious effort to preserve it, and in turn replace the absence of his
father. There were many times when he would take it down from the shelf,
dust it and put it back in its apparent rightful place.
But unlike that idle wooden toy soldier on the shelf, my own dad was a
real life soldier. He worked hard in his life, cared, loved and did the
best that he possibly could for his family. He stood tall against all odds
and provided me with hope and inspiration, successfully setting an example
to march on through my own.
*Canttam*, a berry-like black-coloured local fruit found wild on
Goa's hills.
*Robond*, a locally-made catapult, which children would play with
in Goa, made from a vee-shaped tree branch and waste automobile or cycle
tubes.
Tony Fernandes
Author of “Goa – Memories of My Homeland”
MISSISSAUGA. Ontario L5V2C2
Canada
Sept. 2, 2004
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